


Seeing Ghosts

by Mohini



Series: Ghosts [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AU-college, Amputee Bucky Barnes, Foster Care - Aged Out, Gen, Hyper-Vigilance, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, War Veteran Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-14 03:53:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15380085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mohini/pseuds/Mohini
Summary: He’s already lived through a war tour and he’s not running from a redhead who weighs a hundred pounds soaking wet.





	Seeing Ghosts

Why did he think this was a good idea o’clock in the morning was not the best time to start seeing ghosts. Not that there is ever a good time to see ghosts, but this particular one was sitting front and center in his only idiots sign up for this shit chemistry lecture. His first instinct is to head for the rear of the room but he’s already lived through a war tour and he’s not running from a redhead who weighs a hundred pounds soaking wet. His second thought is to be grateful for his habit of entering classes from the front entries rather than the rear. It might be one of those habits of hyper-vigilance his therapist says he should work on reducing but for today he’s going to call it adaptive and fucking helpful. He sits a few rows back, close enough to pay attention to lecture or at least what little lecture there will be on read the syllabus to the class day. 

A tedious hour of class policies and a hefty serving of dad jokes later the class at large files out the various doors of the large lecture hall. He can see her still and she is most definitely who he thinks she is. He would know that face in a thousand lifetimes. Those darting, hypervigilant eyes are burned into his consciousness in a way that is never leaving him. The way she holds herself on the balls of her feet, knees loose, hips just a little beyond neutral front and back, shoulders purposefully loose and ready, that posture is not the stance of a little girl in a light sundress and sandals. It’s the body position of a fighter and he knows it well because he sees it in his mirror daily. 

“Tasha?” he calls out when he’s within a few feet of her in the hallway. She whips around in a spin that confirms every one of his suppositions. 

“James,” she says evenly. Her eyes are surveying him and he finds himself hoping she finds him adequate, worthy, enough. 

“I thought it was you,” he tells her, kicking himself for sounding like an idiot the moment the words leave his lips. 

“It’s been a while,” she comments, eyes traveling up and down him and taking measure of every inch. The millisecond pause when she reaches the hand that isn’t a hand is faster than nearly anyone else he’s ever seen. 

“I’ve got an hour before I’m due in class. Coffee?” James asks her, and she nods. They walk in perfect unison to the little crap coffee shop with over-roasted beans and too sugary drinks. She orders two black coffees and carries them to a high-top table. 

“So, I’m going to assume the army wasn’t so good to you,” she says without preamble. 

He nods, rolling the sleeve of his shirt up just enough for her to see the metal of the prosthetic clearly above the leather glove he wears to stop most people from staring. 

“They weren’t half bad, it’s the IEDs that sucked,” he replies and he’s momentarily shocked by the ease with which the words come. He never talks about this with anyone but Steve. Even then it’s usually more a drunken moment of loose lips or the middle of the night revelations born of nightmares that don’t fade when the lights come on. 

“I see,” she answers, and it’s the first time anyone has managed to not thank him for his service or tell him they’re sorry. He wants to hug her. He also remembers that hugging Tasha is a very bad idea. 

“So how’d you end up here? I’m obviously GI Billing it. You?”

“Aged out and signed on for the extended care plan. The state pays for tuition and student housing so they can count me in the success column on the statistics. I get a roof, food, classes, and a worker who shows up to check in on me once a month and make sure I’m still breathing. It works.”

Aged out. The words chill his soul. It’s not that it’s a surprise. Kids like him and Tasha don’t get adopted. They get handed a list of options at the pre-planning conference that include things like Army, college, votech, and the ever popular back to the home they got pulled out of for any number of reasons. 

“You’re staring,” she comments.

James forces himself to look down at the table, to stop searching her face for any hint of what’s beneath that pretty surface. He’s seen Tasha work her magic. No one ever sees anything but what she wants them to. 

“Sorry. So, what’s your plan after?”

“You still suck at small talk, you know,” she smiles. It doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m a criminal justice major. End goal is FBI, but they require a bachelor’s and some field experience so school’s the first stop. You?”

“Psychology. Figure I’m fucked up enough to be able to do some good helping someone else.”

“So we’re doing the same thing,” she tells him. “It’s good to see you, James. I need to get going, but give me your phone and I’ll put my number in.”

They exchange phones, logging their numbers into them and go their own ways. James watches her as she weaves in and out of the hordes of people on the pathways, disappearing into the crowd within moments. He makes his way to his next lecture, texting Steve when he slouches into his seat. 

J.Barnes: Tasha is in my chem lecture. 

S.Rogers: The Tasha?

J.Barnes: The Tasha. 

S. Rogers: Damn. Good Luck with that.

J. Barnes: You are such a punk.


End file.
